


Moustache Ride

by foxpuppet



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Consent Issues, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Enthusiastic Rimming, Hand Jobs, Impaired Consent, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rare Pairings, Rimming, Short, but pretty much just rimming, rair pair, slight exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 07:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxpuppet/pseuds/foxpuppet
Summary: A surprisingly soft press of lips, like a kiss, brushed against that most intimate of places. Skwisgaar grunted.“Yous moustache,” he said, with no idea what the rest of that sentence was.___(Skwisgaar says no, Murderface continues anyway, Skwisgaar gets into it fast. So that's rape. Avoid this if that isn't your thing.)





	Moustache Ride

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lack of respect for consent in this fic, which, in the real world is inarguably wrong. 
> 
> But fanfiction isn’t the real world. It is a constructed scenario for the pleasure of both author and audience. I’m a consenting adult, and you’re a consenting adult (or you’d better be) and we’re exploring this mutually enjoyable play session together in the safe space of this fictional story. 
> 
> The parameters of the play session are expressed in the tags. Your safeword is the back button. It’s there for your comfort and use. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

“Whats, waits. Whats?” Skwisgaar slurred as the world tilted, twisted, turned into the black leather of the couch.

“Shut up a second,” Murderface said, his lisp exaggerated by the large quantities of alcohol they had both consumed.

They had all been drinking in the rec room. Then some of them had been drinking in the rec room. Then just Skwisgaar and Murderface had been drinking in the rec room. Then. This. Had happened.

Whatever this was.

Skwisgaar felt large hands fumbling with his belt buckle. Thick fingers brushed his dick as they yanked his pants down.

“//What the fuck is going on?//” Skwisgaar asked not realising he had switched to Swedish until the last word left his mouth, “//Fuck. Stop.//”

“Shut the fuck up,” Murderface repeated, his breath brushing over Skwisgaar’s spine.

“Murderface, stop,” Skwisgaar said again, in English. He reached back, grabbing at Murderface’s greasy frizz.

Thick fingers again. Pulling his arse cheeks apart. That breath, that Skwisgaar knew to be uniquely foul, tickling his arsehole. A shiver worked up Skwisgaar’s spine. Another followed as his drunken brain processed the fact that Murderface was kneeling behind him in the middle of the rec room, where anyone could walk in. And he was just. Staring. At his arsehole. 

Then, a surprisingly soft press of lips, like a kiss, brushed against that most intimate of places. Skwisgaar grunted. 

“Yous moustache,” he said, with no idea what the rest of that sentence was.

Then there was wet heat dragging from Skwisgaar’s perineum up to almost the base of his spine and his elbow fell out from under him as he released a weak, drunken wail.

“Fuck yeah. Just. Just let me-” the sentence trailed off and a sucking kiss was placed directly on Skwisgaar’s quivering hole.

Gentle moans vibrated against his skin and Skwisgaar went from zero to break the furniture with his boner hard in the time it took Murderface to work his long, thick tongue into him.

“//Oh shiiiiit,//” Skwisgaar whined, still clutching Murderface’s hair, now using it to press his face into his crack, “//Gracious fucking Matilda!//”

Muffled sounds of genuine enjoyment thrummed through Skwisgaar’s skin as Murderface licked and sucked and scraped his hole with uneven teeth. A hand slid down from his cheeks to caress his balls, to flick a ragged nail against the slit of his dick.

Skwisgaar was making an embarrassing array of sounds into the, now quite damp couch cushions, still pressing Murderface tight against himself. He had no idea how they had gotten to this point but he was damn glad they had.

Murderface set up a twisting, pulling rhythm on Skwisgaar’s dick as he happily ate out Skwisgaar’s arsehole, pushing his tongue in. So easy, so deep. Deep enough to glance at Skwisgaar’s prostate, pressing hard then light, always quick and not quite enough.

“//Fuck me,//” Skwisgaar begged before remembering English, “Murderface, fuck me.”

“Wait,” Murderface said, never moving away from Skwisgaar’s hole. His breath hot and damp and undoubtedly even worse than before. The thought made Skwisgaar’s gut roil even more with nothing even close to disgust.

“Fucking fucks me!” he demanded, yanking Murderface’s hair, creating more vibrations against him. Inside him. “Sticks your fats, ugly dicks in me! Please!”

He was literally begging. His voice loud enough that the ever-vigilant Klokateers would have to be able to hear him from the halls. It should have been mortifying. It should have been beyond humiliating and far beneath Skwisgaar’s Sex God attitude. 

And yet he had been rendered so hopelessly desperate, so pitifully needy. Reduced to a clutching, panting, drooling mess by little more than a sloppy tongue and calloused hand. In this pathetic state all he could care about was getting Murderface inside him. Ten minutes ago. But Murderface shook his head, his moustache tickling Skwisgaar’s crack.

“Later,” he said, like a promise. Like there actually would be, could be a later. “Just. Let me.”

Obscene sucking sounds and two sets of desperate moaning. One muffled by leather and padding, the other by twitching, wanting flesh. Both not quite covering the sound of a belt buckle opening, a fly being zipped down. 

Skwisgaar was close to crying with how good this all was, from how badly he wanted to be fucked.

Murderface’s hand came back up to press ruthlessly on Skwisgaar’s perineum, the hand on his dick hooking a finger into his foreskin and twirling around the tip. Skwisgaar choked on his own tongue as he came in thick ropes over the couch. Damning evidence that would be left to the Klokateers to clean up.

One of the hands returned to his arse cheek, pulling him wide once more for Murderface’s still probing tongue. The other disappeared but Skwisgaar could guess its new location from the hurried rhythmic sway added to the desperate press against his crease. 

Short seconds later Murderface let out a sob, a patch of wetness soaking through the calf of Skwisgaar’s jeans.

And still, the other hand returned, pressing hot, stickiness into Skwisgaar’s arse cheek as Murderface couldn’t seem to quite bring himself away from the loose twitching mess of Skwisgaar’s hole. Kissing, sucking, biting, stretching the skin with his freed hands. Pressing his fingertips into Skwisgaar just enough to stretch him even wider for Murderface’s hungry tongue. All still with that desperation, only slightly more languid than before. He brought Skwisgaar to a second, dry, peak so quickly it almost hurt.

“//Fuck, please. I can’t,//” Skwisgaar moaned as Murderface continued to eat. “Stop. Murderface. Is too much.”

With a truly disappointed sound Murderface pulled himself away.

There was a moment of stillness. A not-quite silence full of the wet, slowing noises of their finished coupling. Then the rasp of a zipper, the jingling of a belt, unbearably loud. The sound of heavy, thick-booted footfall quickly retreating. It sounded more stable than Skwisgaar thought it probably should.

And Skwisgaar was alone on the come covered couch wondering what the fuck just happened, his arsehole feeling cold, empty and thoroughly ravished.

He reached back to probe at his hole with a long finger. The tip slipped in with almost no pressure. Skwisgaar bit his lip then quickly rose, heading quickly out of the rec room, holding his pants up rather than refastening them.

They were just coming off again as soon as he made it to his room. So he could jam four fingers inside his arse and wank himself raw over the memory of that fucking amazing moustache ride.

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write out everyone's accents but I've since learned to not hate myself. I've only seen up to season three of Metalocalypse and that was a billion years ago, so yeah. My lore isn't at peak density.  
> I mostly wrote this in the back of a car with family in the front so I blame that if this is terrible.


End file.
